


with the comp, 
Waldo 




Pubiished by the Author 
WashingCon, D. C. 

1922 



WBi)tvt Wit Wisith ®o Jfiaf) 



SNYDER'S BAYOU 

Picture the interior of a cool, whitewashed pump- 
house, the old-fashioned wooden pump, and under 
its spout in an oblong trough two wet and gleaming 
monsters. Such indeed they seemed to my five- 
year eyes, yet they were palpable fishes with round 
shining scales. They were almost as long as I was 
tall. What splendid creatures! Whether it was by 
design, I do not know, but when grandpa led me 
from the kitchen to the pump-house that morning 
he made an angler. And — must I confess it? — those 
inspiring, those all-important fishes were only a pair 
of despised, plebeian carp, taken most ingloriously 
from set lines my grandfather had put out the night 
before. However, just then they were not only the 
most wonderful fishes I had ever seen but they were 
an invitation to all sorts of fancied delights, a symbol 
of adventure. 

Of course, with such a grandpa, I had in some 
degree fished before. I can remember well resorting, 
in the company of the lady of my choice, to a bridge 
over a creek near the village, where we angled for 
minnows with twine and bent-pin tackle, and suc- 
ceeded at times, I am sure, in jerking some of the 
flashing little fellows out of the water. And I had 

[1] 



accompanied grandpa before, that is certain, for he 
weaned me from my mother's arms as soon as she 
would permit it. 

But until the vision of the pumphouse, the call of 
angling had not really caught my ear; then it spoke 
to my inmost self and nothing would serve but I 
must go on a real fishing excursion, and that as soon 
as possible. I am not sure whether it was the same 
day, but recollections of youthful persistence would 
incline me to believe it was. At any rate it was 
soon, and the whole of the trip stands out in my 
memory among other fishing experiences like the 
heartwood core of a dead monarch of the forest from 
which have fallen away all the increments of later years . 

What a tramp through the autumn woods, through 
the red, the brown, the rustling leaves! What a joy 
to swish, swish, swish along! It was not far to 
Snyder's Bayou, — the *'by-o" as all called it, — but 
I can remember seeing along the path the full light 
of the sun upon some smooth gray beeches, trees 
which I have ever loved to see and to touch. 

On the banks of the **by-o" grandpa showed me a 
large grape-vine hanging from one of the limbs of a 
great tree spreading out over the water. This had 
been cut oflF near the ground and the boys of the 
neighborhood were accustomed to use it when swim- 
ming, as a swing which carried them, after a run 
down the sloping bank, out where a thrilling plu'nge 
dropped them in the middle of the "by-o." Not 
being a swimmer at that time, the merits of this 

12] 

©ClA6906i5 



(JEG 'd\ l^2;> 



device did not appeal to me. I was for fishing any- 
way, and was glad when grandpa told me we were 
nearing his set-lines. 

Two of them lay near together, the pegs to which 
they were tied hidden by the grasses along the shore, 
the lines entirely under water — precautions necessary 
to prevent too frequent examination by otherwise 
disinterested persons. Grandpa stooped and began 
pulling one in. ''Mighty slack," he said; "I guess 
ril take them up anyway. " So that one was hauled 
in without incident, the hook bare of bait. But the 
next one proved the potency of fisherman*s luck. 
"Gee, there's something on this!" exclaimed grandpa, 
as soon as he had tightened it a little. "Here, feel 
it." And I not only felt that vague, changing 
but stubborn resistance to the pull, but as it was 
hauled in, saw the taut line cutting the water as the 
fish veered from side to side. It proved to be a cat- 
fish, a good-sized one too, and an evil creature to 
handle, with its slippery skin and barbed fins. Here 
came the first lesson in prudence with fishes. With 
just the proper hold to avoid the spines, the "cat" 
was safely made fast to the " stringer" before he was 
freed from the hook, then with the land end of the 
string safely gripped in my hand "catty" was given 
the relief of a plunge in the water. Taking up this 
line in turn, we went on, examined and took up 
another pair, adding another catfish to the string. 

Attending to the set-lines, although interesting 
and fairly profitable, was, we hoped, but a prelimi- 

[3] 



nary to the real business of the day and an augury of 
its success. Still with two sizable catfishes on string 
we could not possibly be "skunked," as the term for 
complete failure ran, so blithely enough we walked 
along toward the old saw-mill and the dam built 
to provide its power. Grandpa's plan called for 
walking across here, an arrangement which, I recall, 
was rather a shock to me upon seeing the narrow top 
of the dam but slightly above deep water on one side, 
and much too far above a mighty rough looking 
combination of timbers, rocks and rushing water on 
the other. But it would not do to show the white 
feather; if that dam had been Blondin's wire over 
Niagara, I suppose I should have attempted it. One 
simply couldn't fail before such a grandpa. 

It made me hungry to cross that dam, and I 
believe an apple and perhaps certain accompani- 
ments, with which grandmas always seem to fill one's 
pockets, was immediately needed to restore me to my 
usual health and spirits. However, as this process 
was going on, it became evident that we were on the 
battle-ground. Grandpa had laid down the cane 
poles and produced an assortment of hooks, lines, 
sinkers and the like. Then and there I had my first 
lesson in loop-knots and half-hitches, or if you please, 
in tying my own tackle. Though this was a matter 
involving some suspense on the part of a boy anxious 
to begin active operations, I had my reward later 
in the pride of having put together for myself the 
tackle that landed the ever- to-be-remembered fish. 

141 



Doubtless I caught some smaller fry that day and 
thus had a chance to practice grandpa's admonition 
to "let them run until the cork goes out of sight" — 
some distance in that clear water. But, we can not 
be detained by mere sunfishes; let us proceed at once 
to the event of the day. Beneath a steep and some- 
what slippery bank was the top of a fallen tree in 
which driftwood had accumulated. "Here is a good 
place," said grandpa, "they like to hide under the 
brush." So out upon it we climbed, an act in itself 
not too easy, nor especially reassuring to me in 
view of the considerable gaps in the pile. However, 
we reached the desired point and located ourselves. 
Sundry perchlings, from time to time, were consigned 
to the string and then came the "bite" which any- 
one could recognize as that of a real fish. Though 
excited, I tried hard to let him run as long as I could 
see the cork. When I struck — a term I did not know 
then, of course — the pull seemed tremendous, so I 
yanked as hard as I could and there shot up out of 
the water the broadest, shiniest, most beautiful fish 
I ever hope to see, which landed on the high bank 
with a slap I can hear to this day. Neither the 
awkward climbing over the brush-pile nor up the 
shelving, slippery bank impeded me then. I scrambled 
to the top and threw myself bodily upon my flopping 
prize. Certainly it would escape through no fault 
of mine. Boring my fingers into its gill slits with a 
death grip before I got up, I carried the prize to 
grandpa. "Oh ho! you got a crappie, didn't you? 

[S] 



and a dandy, too!" were his congratulations. Before 
I released my hold, the fish was safely added to our 
catch. Almost fearfully I saw it returned to the 
water, where a few short rushes taught it the limited 
nature of its liberty. 

Under oath I could not tell you whether I fished 
any more that day; certainly that was the climax, 
the blaze of glory obscuring minor happenings. I 
can not even remember recrossing the dam; in so 
short a time had my spirit soared beyond disturbance 
by such a trifle. 

It was a well-laden small boy who carried, yea, who 
insisted upon carrying those fish home, for well do I 
remember that although I could see the head of the 
top fish over my shoulder the tails of the catfishes 
dragged in the leaves. Years have come and gone, 
years may come and go, but no string of fishes I have 
borne or shall ever bear, can be carried with more 
pride and happiness, and no other fish I ever caught 
or that I shall catch, can yield the deep, the abiding 
satisfaction that crappie did, nor can be enshrined 
in such refulgent splendor in my memory. 

Then, after all, the woods at twilight, as we 
tramped home; there is nothing like the cool hush at 
evening, the lofty grace of nature's cathedrals. They 
quite steeped the soul of a greatly exalted lad. And 
home-coming with great pride I laid my own trophies 
in the place hitherto sacred to those of my grand- 
father. 



[6] 



CONNER'S MILL 

Under Conner's mill were dim, wet-walled pas- 
sages about the leaky cribs that housed the power 
wheels. The floor was smooth limestone, the carpet 
rushing water, the air all coolness and mist, a delight 
to traverse on a warm summer day. To explore 
these dark caverns, to clamber in full sunlight over 
the great stonework that supported the dam, and to 
wade in the wasteway of white water down below — 
what joy in all of these! 

In the shallow spillway schools of minnows dwelt 
and here we caught our live bait. This part of our 
program was as much fun as any for me and the way 
grandpa strove with the seine and gave excited com- 
mands, left no doubt that he was interested and 
enjoying it too. Stemming the swift bubbly water 
with our mosquito-bar net was both a struggle and a 
pleasure. Our sight scarcely penetrated the broken, 
foamy current, so our catch was never known until 
we lifted the seine at the end of a haul. How the 
silvery, flipping little fellows spattered the water as we 
raised the net. Generally five or ten, sometimes as 
many as fifty, rewarded each haul. Often small sun- 
fish or other stragglers were included; once in a long 
while even a small eel. Occasionally impetuous 

[7] 



bass, these always of the smaller sizes, ran up in the 
mill-tailings to snatch minnows. Feeling the en- 
croachment of the seine these agile youngsters would 
dart beyond its menace or as often leap out of the 
water and over the top. Enough of the "shiners'* 
transferred to our minnow bucket, our subsequent 
movements were planned to keep them alive and 
active. Minnows taken from this water that seemed 
half air showed discomfort at once in any less invig- 
orating medium. We kept them in the current 
all the way across the river and on the other side set 
them under some little cascade where the air supply 
was almost as good as in the spillway. 

"Crossing the river" — I have referred to that 
casually but it was always a rather soul-trying experi- 
ence for me — because we waded. Grandpa had a 
course he followed by walking so far toward a certain 
rock then with a change of direction toward another 
landmark and so on. I never could help wondering 
what would happen to the so much shorter member 
of our pair should grandpa get off the course. It was 
impossible to bolster up my spirits by conversation, 
for we crossed just below the long mill dam where 
the roar of the water pouring over it was deafening. 
So mustering all my resolution I followed as close on 
grandpa's heels as possible. Cold water creeping 
up and up over a young man's ribs tends to chill the 
spirit and when it reaches his neck, some change in 
procedure seems very desirable. But onward, ever 
onward, was the only possibility in these crossings, so 



shivers and doubts alike were forgotten in the stress 
of action. 

Once across, the fun began. Innumerable eddies 
and pockets invited angling; the broad sweep of the 
river was before us; the dam roared; the saw-mill 
snarled; the grist-mill droned; the sun shone; and all 
was well. 

At this end of the dam it was often possible to go 
underneath and seldom did I fail to take advantage 
of the opportunity. Cool and dripping was this 
retreat, and behind the mighty curtain of translu- 
cently green water, shut off from the world, one could 
imagine anything. Often, however, my mission 
under the dam was strictly practical, for the wet 
shingly floor was a good place to find hellgramites 
and crawfishes, fiercely pinching crawlers, if incau- 
tiously grasped, but among the best of baits for bass. 
I remember well being astonished but greatly inter- 
ested and pleased one day to find a downy wood- 
pecker was not afraid to share my hunting grounds. 
Darting through a gap in the sheet of falling water, 
he perched on one of the upright timbers of the dam 
and pecked away as much at home as on a tree in the 
woodland. 

If the search for river bait was a success, with the 
earthworms usually dug beforehand in the rich home 
garden, with grasshoppers in season, besides our 
minnows, we had a variety of lures almost as numer- 
ous as the kinds of fishes we hoped to tempt with 
them. Diversity also and action characterized my 

[91 



taste in fishing, while grandpa was for steadfast 
effort to get the big ones. Usually I won the count 
in numbers, but just as invariably he caught one or 
more "old soakers" that would outweigh my whole 
collection. Our differing propensities in fishing 
must have been constitutional for I believe that even 
to this day I would fish as the boy did then, for 
variety and novelty, rather than for size. 

Not a pool beneath the little waterfalls did I leave 
untried, not a great boulder but I climbed and 
dropped a line in the hole it sheltered. Many the 
bright sunfish and goggle-eye that were enticed from 
such retreats by my lures. What strong and gallant 
rushes these sturdy little fellows made, and how each 
was admired in general and in detail as he graced my 
catch. 

Sometimes when the sport slackened, I wedged my 
pole among the rocks and sought entertainment along 
the shore. Water flowing around the end of the dam 
spread out over great flats of limestone terraced one 
below the other and fell in endless little cataracts 
over their scalloped margins. These sheets of water 
slipped over bottoms, here of polished stone, there 
shaggy with green moss, from which Johnny darters 
were flushed by my searching toes. On the bank, 
thin, flat, water-worn flakes of limestone were abun- 
dant, and they made the grandest ''skippers," 
although I was careful after experience not to try 
any of them near where grandpa was fishing. 

Returning to my "set" tackle always held the 

[lOJ 



thrill of mystery; sometimes the line was slack and 
when lifted brought forth a bare hook. Some "bait 
stealer" had been at work. Again it was taut or 
even sawing the water this way and that; then excite- 
ment was rife. A pull on the line always provoked 
resistance which if easily overcome meant one of the 
smaller game fishes was the catch, but which some- 
times was of a very different order and origin. A 
lazy, rolling pull suggesting that of a water-logged 
limb, betokened a catfish, and a strong, shearing pull 
as if there were a barn door on the line presenting its 
broad side and yielding toward the surface only a 
little for each long side slip, meant a turtle, nothing 
else. The kind we caught here in swift water were 
the soft-shelled — long-necked, snaky-headed beasts, 
ever ready to snap at a finger, but despite their 
physical and spiritual ugliness, embodying the 
makings of wonderful soup when carried home to a 
skilful grandma. 

The times when grandpa called on me for help 
were proud moments still well remembered. Usually 
the cause was the most common of the '*bait- 
stealers" — the eel. A frantically writhing, slippery 
eel on the hook, a problem for any one, was an espe- 
cially difficult one for my one-armed grandpa. Calling 
me to get a stick, he usually pulled the eel to a rock 
at the water's edge, where a tap or two on the head 
quieted it or providentially knocked it entirely free of 
the hook. 

On one momentous occasion the first glance I 

[11] 



gave in response to a call for help assured me it 
wasn't a miserable eel this time. Grandpa was in 
water up to his arm-pits, evidently having a tussle 
with a sure-enough big one. Here I must tell you 
we did not have reels and endless line, but had to 
play our catch with tackle of fixed length, by the 
"give" of the bamboo or by yielding to the pull, 
sometimes, as in this case, by wading as deep as we 
could. This time grandpa had waded and waded 
and allowed the fish to take him down stream and 
out in the current till it would have been dangerous 
to go farther. "Bring your pole quick!" were the 
first of his words I heard clearly, so I scampered 
down the bouldery shore as fast as I could. As soon 
as I got close grandpa added, "Wade out and reach 
me your pole." It proved I could wade out far 
enough, so putting the butt of his own pole under his 
stump grandpa threw several half hitches of my line 
above one of the joints, and taking my pole in hand 
dropped his in the water. Letting out my line 
slowly he backed out of the deep water, and by the 
time he was holding my pole in about the usual 
position he had reached my side. The buoyancy of 
the long cane pole made an effective drag and the 
combination tackle grandpa had devised proved 
excellent for sapping the last energies of this "old 
timer." Gradually he was warped in and my pole 
was given to me. "Keep handy, we may need it 
again," said grandpa. That generous "we" was 
not lost on me, you can be sure. However, the bass 

[121 



did not have vim enough for another long rush and 
bit by bit was brought to shore. When he lay almost 
safely on his side in shoal water, my eager fingers 
hauled him out by the gills. What a dandy! What 
a mouth! He could have gulped down my whole 
catch together. And he weighed — yes, I remember 
exactly, by the scales at the mill, too large for 
weighing any trifling fish — he held the beam up 
hard at six pounds, almost the record for the small- 
mouthed black bass. Although I did not catch him, 
I volunteered as his special guard of honor all the way 
home, a pleasure grandpa never thought of denying 
me. It was a grand fish to escort through the village, 
possessing a dignity and importance which warded 
oflF sarcastic references to ''fishermen's luck," but 
which evoked instead exclamations as: "What a 
whopper!" ''Where'd you get him?" and ** Guess 
I'll be going fishin' to-morrow." 

So may we all who "go fishin' to-morrow," have 
as much luck and as much joy of the land and water, 
sport and weather, as grandpa and I had many a 
time at Conner's Mill. 



[13 



THE BLOOMER HOLE 

A rifle, out of place though it may seem in a fish 
story, must serve for the reader's introduction to the 
Bloomer Hole, as it did for mine. Of the percussion- 
lock style, with long octagon barrel and brass butt- 
plate with scroll-like ends, it had a stock so highly 
figured that no name but Circassian walnut would 
be deemed to do it justice in present trade parlance. 
A cow's horn held the powder and the bullets were 
patched in rawhide. I have the powder-measure 
and bullet-mold now and wish mightily I had the 
whole outfit. 

An old-time squirrel rifle sure enough, but for all 
my apology, what we did with it here was not so far 
away from fishing; it was for getting turtles. There 
was a stretch of comparatively shoal water above the 
Bloomer Hole with many projecting rocks upon 
which turtles were wont to sun themselves. Along 
the bank ran a rail fence that afforded convenient 
rests for riflemen of every height. Screened by the 
trees and shrubbery of the shore and by the vine- 
covered fence, openings were sought where loafing 
turtles presented a fair target. I was permitted to 
fire a shot now and then, but always unprofitably, so 
far as I can remember. Inevitably, therefore, my 
chief function was that of retriever. 

[14] 



More thrills for me, of course — wading out for Mr. 
Turtle. Stepping now on a boulder, with a hopeful 
proportion of my length out of water for a moment, 
then off to the river bed and in water entirely too 
deep; often finding a hole where there ought not to 
be one, certainly I had my ups and downs, both in 
movement and in spirit. Usually the turtles, with 
head shot clean off, were so deadened that they had 
not moved by the time I reached them, but often 
enough, also, they were less cleanly hit and managed 
to crawl off. Then I had to feel for them with my 
feet, the possibility uppermost in my mind of stick- 
ing a toe into the eagerly waiting mouth of a justifi- 
ably vindictive terrapin. However, even this seem- 
ing probability never happened, and the test, like 
others of these boyhood fishing trips, must have 
given me some assurance that fears are so seldom 
realized that it does not pay to let the mind dwell 
upon them. When the turtle was found, down I 
had to go for him, this effort not seldom taking me 
entirely under water. With the prize in hand the 
way back to shore never seemed so long nor so trying 
as the outward journey, another lesson for the boy 
that difficulties once surmounted never again appear 
so big. 

The largest and most memorable turtle we got 
near the Bloomer Hole, however, was not a victim 
of the rifle but of a set-line. He was an old mossback 
snapper, and how he did pull! It took grandpa and 
me both to get him to the shore and then when he 

[15] 



caught sight of us he was only too ready to come 
nearer. His little red eyes glared and his steel-trap 
jaws were menacingly opened. Apparently he wished 
nothing more than to engage in personal combat. 
His progress up the bank was not in the least obstruc- 
ted by us, but by the time he had climbed the slope 
and was on fairly level ground, grandpa had devised 
a plan for managing him. He gave the beast a good 
stick, big as a broom handle to bite on; it was 
viciously seized and the action seemed to satisfy Mr. 
Snapper that he was doing some damage, for he held 
on stubbornly from that moment. When we were 
assured of his liking for the stick, grandpa pulled on 
the line and at his direction I seized the snapper's 
tail and put one foot on his back. Thus we stretched 
out his neck until it could be haggled in two with a 
saw-bladed pocket-knife. Throughout this opera- 
tion the old snapper's jaws clung to the stick and 
were so locked upon it that after the head was 
severed from the body we could not pry them loose. 
The decapitated body had tremendous vitality and 
was so able in crawling away that we tied it to a stake 
in the sun so that it would be more tractable when 
we wanted to take it home. The shell of this old 
fellow was all of a foot long; and the carcass made 
turtle steak and soup galore. 

I remember yet that when we finished with that 
particular snapper, and a lot of work it had been, 
we immediately adjourned for lunch. The most 
fitting place for this important function, one always 

[16] 



sought by us when in the locality, was a fine spring 
at the foot of the bluff just above the Bloomer Hole. 
Over the spring was a vigorous beech with many 
long, slender, whippy limbs, one of which I almost 
always cut for a rod when fishing here. Their light- 
ness and pliability just fitted in with my style of 
angling, and with a thread-like line, small hook and 
float, made an outfit that suited me better than any 
other available then or tried since. 

The Bloomer Hole itself was a deep, swirling pool 
with a shallow gravelly rifi^e above it and a quiet 
bayou below. Except for one swift channel we 
crossed on a log, the rifile was grown up to water- 
willows and furnished firm footing about the rounded 
upper side of the Hole. From here I often saw my 
float or grandpa's carried down, down in the deep 
boiling pool, its movements a composite response to 
the rushes of a gamy bass and to the tangled cur- 
rents of the Hole. More than anything else I can 
recall, the mind picture I have of a float being torn 
through the seething depths of the Bloomer Hole 
symbolizes thrilling, joyous, triumphant fishing. 

Two experiences from our angling here are especi- 
ally remembered. While reconnoitering one day 
with my favorite beech-shoot outfit, I noticed a short 
run of current along the bank ending in a little whorl 
of water. This was a tempting place to drop a line 
and soon I started my little float in at the head of 
the short current. When it reached the whirl, zip! 
down it went. A sharp tug assured me the cause was 

[17] 



a fish, not the current, and after a short struggle, — 
the supple rod conveying the whole story to my 
eager hand, — I landed a half-pound bass. Re-baiting 
I made exactly the same cast, and at the whirl 
exactly the same thing happened, and it continued 
to happen again and again. The mechanical pre- 
cision of the short run of the float and the inevitable 
strike were fascinating. Seven of those half- 
pounders were landed,, as like as peas in a pod, and it 
took many a trial to convince me no more were there. 
Another time I had laid down at the edge of the 
Hole similar tackle. Suddenly I noticed the float 
was no longer in sight. Seizing the pole I found 
practically my whole line under water and whatever 
was on it hardly yielded at all to my pull; surely it 
was big. Keeping the line taut it finally moved out 
in the pool, taking about all I could reach, then swung 
in the eddy and came back along the shore. The 
boil of the water must have helped, for the catch now 
did not resist coming to the surface. I kept the line 
taut and soon saw the head of what struck me then 
as a veritable monster. I might have been frightened 
except that it was clearly enough a fish, and therefore 
to be landed if at all possible. The current helping 
greatly, I eased this great hulk of a fish up in the edge 
of the water-willows, seized his gills with both hands 
and hauled him a few feet back on the gravel. Not 
until then, apparently, did the fish realize that there 
was anything menacing in the situation. But once 
on the gravel shore he flopped for all he was worth 

I18j 



and had not help been at hand probably would have 
gotten away from me. He was a twelve-pound 
redhorse and was landed by a tiny hook that had 
only a flesh hold in his upper lip. All due to his 
unsuspicious, easygoing disposition, he didn't put 
up a fight until it was too late. His head made an 
elegant chowder; which is about all the heads are 
good for of those who fail to make a good fight at 
the right time. 



[19 J 



NOTES ON CONTENTS 

Conceived, Orono, Maine, March, 1914. Written Maywood, 
Virginia: Snyder's Bayou, January; Conner's Mill, August; The 
Bloomer Hole, September, 1922. 

Dedicated to my maternal grandfather, Miles Morris. Born 
and reared amid pioneer conditions in Grant County, Indiana, 
the scene of these tales, he played his part in subduing the wild- 
erness, served the Union throughout the Civil War. Repeatedly 
wounded then, he was fated to suffer the worst injury — loss of 
his right arm — in a " sham " battle many years later. His was 
a lovable nature characterized by great natural goodness and in- 
finite patience. I owe him very much for the comradeship that 
was mine from almost my earliest recollections to the time I 
spread my wings and left the parental nest. Inspiring me by 
pictures of pioneering and soldiering days, and inuring me to 
lesser hardships on our excursions, bringing me in contact with 
a thousand realities of practical every-day life, but withal keep- 
ing as much as possible in the most interesting wild spots our 
region afforded, he gave me a companionship that comprised the 
origin of much that has been fundamental in my later life. 



[20 



